The muscles in the old woman’s face pulled taut, drawing her lips back from her teeth in a kindly yet impersonal smile. The movement seemed to trigger a certain cracking of her liver-spotted and sagging flesh, sending ever more wrinkles fracturing across each square inch of space. Her gnarled hand sought my own and felt like cold, soft, dry leather upon contact. Her nails were cut short and properly manicured so as to set an example for the little girls in class, just in case there were nail biters among them. Her snowy hair was like a neatly-coifed cotton tuft crowning the bright eyes and withered features in aged glory. She wore timeless pastel raiment easily identifiable as “grandma on an outing” clothes.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Helling, and I’m sorry for the inconvenience. I trust you didn’t have any trouble finding the classroom. Cheryl tells me that you’ve been very busy with work and are, in fact, leaving in the morning on business.” Her voice was that of a younger woman, full-throated and rich, with a certain edge to it. Her manner of inflection and the slight hardness she affected in the use of particular words suggested a sort of warning, or perhaps more accurately a challenge. Through these means she attempted to establish her dominance as the authority in this situation, and I the vassal meant solely to consent and enact change in order to rectify what she viewed as a disturbance in her realm. I shook her hand firmly, calculating that she was likely at least mildly arthritic. The slight twinge as I did so confirmed my assumption.

“Mrs. Baker. No, I didn’t, and yes, I am.” She gestured to an armless plastic chair she’d pulled up to her desk, carefully positioning herself in her more comfortable seat even as she folded her hands into a seamless mass of crags. I sat in my allotted space, sliding my glasses back up with one hand as our gaze locked. There was a pregnant pause long enough to trigger my impatience at interruption to my usual routine. “Tell me why I’m here, Mrs. Baker.”

“Yes of course,” she breathed, shaking her head slightly as if stirred from a reverie. She’d been sizing me up and likely attempting to psychoanalyze me. Good luck. She opened a manila folder on her desk complete with a tab labeled “Darren” in thick blue marker. She withdrew a sheet of construction paper and looked at it pointedly before handing it to me. Taking and examining it, I could easily intuit the given project. A house (presumably ours) was in the distance to one side. There were several disproportionate, flat people rendered with nonetheless acute attention so that each was instantly recognizable. Cheryl was holding a laden plate and a Bible, an exaggerated smile on her face. Darren was playing with his toys near his mother. Scout was next to him as a nondescript brown blob identifiable only by his wagging tail and ears. I however was standing apart, very tall and spindly with large insect-like glasses for eyes. I carried a vial in my hand containing bright green liquid. The crowning glory of Darren’s depiction was the pale, pinkish blob attached to its feeding apparatus, multitude of limbs spread out as if the boy had counted them as he drew, the small tentacle protruding from its stomach with a spider at the end of it. Apparently he had rather recently been in my office while I was away. I couldn’t help but smirk slightly despite Mrs. Baker’s watchful stare.

“Interesting.” I said pensively, remembering to shake my head in order to affect wonderment.

“Isn’t it?” she replied in a slightly accusatory tone. She leaned forward with her elbows on her knees as if she were a coach about to give me an inspirational talk. “The assignment was to draw his family. I asked him about that—” here she pointed to the creature between me and the rest of my family, “—and he told me that it was his brother. That his name is Fred.” I looked at the drawing and then at the teacher.

“This is what you called me in for?” I uttered, mildly incredulous.

“Cheryl recommended that I speak to you because this is obviously tied to Darren’s impression of his father.”

“I’m a genetic engineer, Mrs. Baker. The neighbors reportedly take great pleasure in ascribing the role of Dr. Frankenstein to me particularly because I’m a very busy man. Children are quiet imaginative. If there were a problem with him don’t you think his drawing would be more frightening than a little pink monster sitting at my feet like a pet?” She stared at me long and hard for the span of several moments. Finally she broke the trance with a sigh.

“I’m also worried about his emotional state, Mr. Helling. He won’t play with the other children.”

“He doesn’t share their interests.”

“He doesn’t have any friends. Don’t you find that a little odd?"

“I don’t. I was a quiet child, myself.”

“I think your son would benefit from counseling.” It was my turn to lean in close, raising my brows and tilting my head to look at her over the rims of my glasses, clasping my hands loosely. I enunciated each word firmly and distinctly.

“If Darren is exhibiting behavioral issues or doing poorly in class, you can certainly let me or Cheryl know. My boy doesn’t like the children in your class and isn’t going to like you for forcing him to interact with them more than is necessary. Rather than pushing him, you need to let him be himself. Children are bullies enough on their own without help from their teachers. Good night, Mrs. Baker.”

She was entirely dumbfounded by my denunciation of her presentation and found herself unable to reply. Inevitably Cheryl would receive a lengthy email or phone call about the meeting supplying exaggerations of my response and vehemently offering rebuttal, but it was Cheryl’s contrivance which placed me under fire. She wouldn’t dare broach the subject of Mrs. Baker’s reaction with me. As to my son…

The nostrils of his broad, whistling nose flared with indignation even as his lower lip quivered and promptly stiffened. Mr. Dovak considered me silently with an untrusting and calculating gaze, the keyboard tray half retracted under his desk in a forgotten fashion and the ringing of his office phone disregarded as so much white noise. He was, I noted, the father of two bright-eyed blonde girls and a devout Christian as indicated by the bric-a-brac hanging like trophies along the wall behind his desk amid the maze of certificates marking his more general scholarly and Company-specific achievements. Everything bore a fine, long settled whitish-grey film of dust across the upward-facing edges. The minute flakes of human skin – mostly his own – had been wiped clear of the work surface and more visible areas of the room by the janitors. These contract maintenance workers cared not a whit for the various honors or windows into Mr. Dovak’s forty some-odd years of life. Apparently he himself bore a similar response as he hadn’t chided the custodians for their oversight. The dead skin thus remained a testament to the man’s attendance and hard work, just as lost to oblivion as the meal he’d eaten on this day a month ago. “You want a key to the lab,” he stated in disbelief, repeating my earlier request. This prompted me to adjust my gaze back to his beady black eyes, miniscule against the wrinkled, tanned creases extending from the corners like rays. Flecks of the fluorescent office lighting reflected from the upper curves, revealing the slight bump of his contact lenses. His sight wasn’t poor enough to require glasses yet, and I surmised that he’d resisted the temptation of corrective surgery due to old-fashioned values. These were stolid indications of how best to manipulate my answer to placate him. I didn’t wish for the Company to learn about this development in Fred. “For working after-hours,” I responded smoothly in a near-purr, offering him a cool smile in deference. “I realize the Company’s urgency. At times I’ve had epiphanies strike at home, and I keep finding myself wishing I had access to the lab to get a head start on testing my adjustments.” I paused, glancing at the caller ID as the phone sprung to life again. Noting my shifting attention, Mr. Dovak extended a hand and flicked the ringer on mute without breaking his studious gaze. I turned my head back to him, thrusting a finger up to shove my glasses against my brow line as they’d slid inexorably downward once more. “Why are you coming to me rather than your supervisor?” he shot back, “I’m not in charge of the lab.” I allowed a respectful interlude long enough to show mild obeisance before responding with strident honesty. “Mr. Watson doesn’t seem to grasp the sincerity of my efforts,” I advised, recalling with acute distain the flat rejection he’d offered. “Nor does he seem as interested in furthering Company interests as controlling his particular niche.” I allowed a trickle of my disapproval to seep into my voice, my lip curling up ever so slightly, flashing a hint of teeth. Judging by the trifling tic I noticed whilst Mark’s eyes remained calm, his opinion of the man was lower than his wariness in the face of my request. He placed a hand to his clean-shaven chin, rubbing it almost imperceptibly as if lost in thought. I examined him as one might examine an insect crawling underfoot. This incognizant Company man sitting in his overstuffed chair was the deciding factor in whether or not I would have unobstructed access to work with Fred’s genetic code at my own discretion. I needed the lab equipment in order to conduct the chemical testing necessary to seek out and isolate the section of rDNA responsible for his as yet inexplicable adaptability. I didn’t wish for prying eyes to discover the specifics of this research. I was the lead scientist working on the F-series coding, but I had a team of technicians working to assist me with monitoring, testing and other such tasks. After the initial production of Fred’s brethren I was given permanent employ in the R&D department as the Company dabbled in more than just a restaurant chain or two and had its finger on the pulse of the food production industry. Self-sufficiently it therefore kept staff on hand to examine further possibilities into the manufacture of new monsters to feed the general populace. The inimitable Mr. Watson was quite the micromanager, adept at hovering over each employee and ruining the concentration of even the most intense technician with a volley of questions. He wanted to know if this analysis was strictly necessary to the work at hand; if this were the first or fifth trial and how many variables had changed; whether this or that sequence had been isolated, properly bonded, et al. He jabbered on and pinched pennies, driving many of the gentler hired hands to drinking or smoking, if they hadn’t previously possessed that vice. The R&D lab continually suffered from poor morale and the HR department – including Mark Dovak – had tasted quite enough of the fruits of Mr. Watson’s labors. “Let me remind you, John, that you are salary. If I were to agree to this, you would not receive any further financial compensation.” My reptilian smile widened. He believed he knew precisely what I was hinting at: that Mr. Watson was the cause of some sort of slowdown in my teams’ progress, and thus I was really asking for permission to pursue my research without my supervisor’s interference. The former was untrue, but Mr. Dovak was disinclined to sleuth things out for himself. He was by and large a hands-off sort of dictator with egomaniacal middle manager syndrome. In my case, however, I knew he would personally handle my inquiry the moment I left his office. His reaction, though subtle to the average observer, spoke volumes. He disliked the recalcitrant Mr. Watson more than he felt uneasy around me. I worked quickly, quietly and bothered no one. “Of course, Mark. I wasn’t expecting any. I am simply eager to pursue this as a scientist.” He examined me momentarily before looking away, and I knew I’d won. His computer screen had entered power save mode and had flicked off several minutes prior, thus he pulled his keyboard tray out and wiggled his mouse. The monitor obediently flashed back to life. He straightened and scooted his chair closer to his desk as he cleared his throat. “I’ll see what I can do. I can’t make any promises.” “Thank you.” I responded with as much warmth as I could muster. I turned on my heel, taking my leave. I expected to receive my key tomorrow morning. Fred’s tentacle had developed only under prolonged life-threatening duress, yet required a few days to manifest. The short-term power outages had not been enough to generate the response. In my home office I’d left Fred independent of his life support, and had in fact set a dish of water out of reach before leaving for the day. I was excited to know what might have come of the experiment. The man-made horrors furnishing “chicken” meat to the Company’s fast food chains should not have cause to develop in the same manner as Fred. Even if they did, the average processing plant employee would just dismiss it as a mutation and move the monstrosity down the line. All the same, I had to work quickly to learn all that I could. Any of the technicians in my team – all working with my creation in order to streamline different parts of the growth, development and harvesting – could potentially stumble across this oddity as well. I needed to mislead them during the day, pursuing my true research at night after they left. I was the one piecing together the puzzle of these recombinant creations, yet I was hired by men desiring to feed their fellows genetically modified meat from animals with far too many legs, far too few bones, and little to no brain. These employers in fact decreed that society must pay them for the privilege of these tasty morsels. My department’s goal was to drive costs down so the upper management could reap heftier profits. I doubt a single one of them had ever tasted Fred’s brethren. Fewer still would ever consider it. In the face of this, who then was the true demon?